Mercy wiped the cool cloth down his cheek, over his jaw. “It doesn’t matter. You must stop. This is too much. Too early. Wait until you recover more.”
Eoos had to agree with her.
“Me da wants to know if he is going to pay,” the small girl said timidly.
Eoos looked at her in confusion. “Pay? For what?”
“Your room at the inn.”
Room. Eoos glanced up the stairs. More memories flooded through his mind until his head felt like it was being split open. Mercy was right. He needed to rest.
“Tell Bartholomew that I will pay,” Mercy said. “Can you go and get some ale?”
The little girl bobbed her head and disappeared into a back room.
“Does she know who I am?” Eoos whispered, “My name?”
“Eoos,” Mercy pleaded.
“Just a name. That will be enough for today.”
Mercy sighed and nodded. “This is dangerous. You are in too much pain. As your head heals, the memories will come. You mustn’t try to force them.”
“What if they don’t come?”
She stroked his cheek. Her hand was warm and tender and gentle and…loving. “They will.”
Her words soothed him, and the pain slowly faded from his mind. He stood shakily and she steadied him with a hand on the back of his arm.
The child appeared from the back room holding a mug. She handed it to Eoos. He was about to raise the cup to his lips when he spotted the stairway leading up to another floor. He lowered the cup, a scowl on his brow. “I have a bag. Where is my bag?”
“It is back at my barn,” Mercy said.
He looked at the little girl. “I procured a room for the night.”
The girl simply stared at him.
“What is my name?”
“Me da says you are Sir Richard le Breton,” she answered quietly. “The brute.”
Chapter Eight
The brute. Richard mulled the word over on the ride back to the cottage. “Who is Eoos?” he finally asked as he helped Mercy dismount.
Mercy shrugged.
It was a name familiar to him. Comforting. But he didn’t remember who it belonged to. Was he married? Did he have a family that was missing him?
Mercy walked toward the cottage.
Right now, his only family was Mercy and her boy, Kit. He had vowed to help them to save Kit.
“Mercy,” he called.
She turned to him.
“I have given my vow to help you. But truth be told, we know nothing of my past. What if you are in more danger with me than you would be staying in this village?”
Mercy returned to him. She shook her head. “Kit is in more danger here. That is all that is important to me. They will not take him.”
He nodded.
Mercy sighed softly. Her gaze swept his face in contemplation. “So, it’s Richard now?” Mercy grinned. “I don’t know if I’ll get used to calling you that.”
“It is my name.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “Richard,” she whispered. “Sir Richard.” Finally, she nodded. “Yes. It fits.”
“What about the brute?”
She scowled. “I would never call you that.”
His heart warmed. “There must be a reason for others to call me that.”
“Yes.” She looked down, as if searching the ground for the answer. “Something from your past.”
“I didn’t remember my own name. What if I don’t remember? What if it never comes back?”
“It will,” she promised. “You’ve already started remembering. You knew how to ride.”
“But I didn’t recognize my horse.”
“You knew how to clean armor and that you had a bag.”
Richard grew silent. She was right. He just needed…to be patient. And he had a feeling that patience wasn’t his strength. Perhaps that was where the name brute came from.
Kit burst from the cottage and raced across the yard toward them. There was something in his wide-eyed expression that sent ripples of trepidation down Richard’s back.
Mercy held her arms out to him. “What is it?”
Kit leapt into her arms. “Simon is here.”
The boy had no sooner gotten the words out when two men walked out of the cottage, Alice following. Mercy set Kit on his feet, pulling him behind her as Richard stepped forward protectively.
Richard recognized Simon, but the other he didn’t know.
“You are not welcomed here,” Mercy stated.
Richard summed up the second man with a sweeping glance. He had a round belly and scraggily shoulder length dark hair. Even injured, Richard knew the man posed no threat.
“I’ve brought Bartholomew. He can identify the brute,” Simon snarled.
Mercy rose up. “He is not here. How many times must I tell you that?”
“We’ll see. Stand aside and let Bartholomew look at…your cousin.”
“How dare you come here to insult me. I told you the knight escaped. Are you calling me a liar?”
They were looking for him. To beat him again? “It’s alright,” Richard called from beside her. “Let him look.”
Mercy glanced at him.
Richard saw uncertainty in her gaze. But he was not afraid. Nor was he a fool. He knew he was the knight they were looking for. He knew Mercy had cut his hair and dyed it. And he had shaved the thick beard from his chin. He hoped this would be enough to disguise his looks.
Bartholomew stepped up to him, his eyes narrowed. His gaze moved over his face.
Richard stared him in the eye.
Bartholomew’s gaze moved down over his body.
Richard was grateful Mercy had given him a tunic from her late husband to wear. It was tight across his shoulders, and short, but it would do.
“Well?” Simon demanded.
Richard held his breath, preparing to defend himself with blows. They were foolish to confront him with no weapons for defense.
Bartholomew scratched his head. “I can’t be sure.”
“Is it him or not?” Simon demanded.
“I…” Bartholomew looked at Richard again. “No. It’s not him.”
His shoulders relaxed, draining of tension. “The lady has said you are not welcome here. Be gone. And never doubt her word again.”
Simon grumbled. He whirled away, disappointed and angry.
Bartholomew joined him, and they both moved toward the road.
Richard looked at Mercy. Her face seemed pale in the afternoon sunlight.
They both watched the men move off down the road.
Richard chuckled. “I’ve never been so happy about shaving before.”
Mercy looked at him, but there was concern in her gaze. “We still need to be careful. You’re still healing. You can’t defend yourself against everyone.”
It irked him that she thought he was weak. That she thought he couldn’t protect himself. He was a knight! He had slain and battled others! The thought sobered him. Had he killed?
“Besides. You are still recovering. I will be alright. Kit, bring Richard his bag. It’s near my bed. I’m going to visit Abbey.”
As Mercy drew closer to Abbey’s cruck, she saw a crowd standing before the doorway, peering inside. Tremors of unease snaked down Mercy’s spine. She hurried to the open doorway, having to push her way through the villagers.
Inside, Lief held Abbey around the waist. A rope around her neck pulled her upright, the other end tied to a rafter in the ceiling. Her cloudy eyes were open and stared at Mercy with condemnation. Her face was greyish blue.
Mercy gasped but couldn’t look away.
Simon stood on a stool behind her and cut the rope tied to a rafter.
Mercy didn’t have to examine Abbey. She knew she was dead. She knew what had happened. She rushed into the room just as the rope broke and Abbey’s body fell forward over Lief’s shoulder. He caught her and moved to a nearby table.
Simon scurried down from the stool and cleared the table with a sweep of his arm
.
Mercy jumped as a pottery jar crashed to the floor, shattering into pieces.
Lief reverently eased Abbey onto the table.
For a moment, Mercy couldn’t move. Tears rose in her eyes as she stared at her friend. She couldn’t help her. She should never have let her go home alone. She should have stayed with her.
She stepped up to Abbey’s side. There was nothing she could do for Abbey now. She was gone.
Mercy reached out and brushed her hand over Abbey’s eyes, easing them closed. She bid her a silent farewell as heavy guilt settled over her shoulders. She never should have left her.
“She killed herself,” Lief whispered in disbelief.
“What a weak woman,” Simon grumbled.
Mercy whirled on him. “How dare you disrespect her like that? You were too cowardly to stand up for her child. Her death is on your shoulders.” She stepped away from Simon. “It’s on all our shoulders.” She glanced back at Abbey’s body. “The bishop took her life. There was nothing left for her.” Fear tightened a lump in her chest as tears rushed through her eyes. She pictured her face over Abbey’s. Would she do the same thing if the bishop took Kit?
No. There had to be a way. Some way to save Kit. And herself. She had been unable to save Luke, how was she going to save Kit?
Richard sat on a straw bale in a circle of flickering candlelight. He pulled open a flap on his bag. Kit had brought him his bag, the one they had brought from the inn. He had to know who he was. He had to remember his past. Maybe something inside the bag could help him remember.
He shoved his hand inside the cotton bag. He pulled out clothing. A tunic, a pair of leggings. Nothing he remembered. He plunged his hand inside again and pulled out a knife sharpening rock. A knight would have that. He was surprised he remembered what it was. He reached inside and pushed his hand back and forth. His fingers wrapped around something metallic, round and small at the bottom of the bag. He brought it forth. Coins. He tossed them aside, aggravated. They lent nothing to who he was.
Frustrated, he took the bag and turned it over, dumping the contents onto the dirt floor. More coins rolled across the dirt, clothing and rags fell out. He spread the contents on the ground, searching. Nothing. Nothing that helped him remember.
He stood and ran his hands through his hair, pushing it from his face. The moonlight shone in through the slats of the barn wall. He had to know. There was something everyone was hiding from him. What had he done? What had happened? He gritted his teeth and paced. There had to be something! He kicked the bag and it flew across the stall, hitting the far wooden wall with a dull clunk.
Surprised and confused, Richard turned to eye the bag. It should have been empty. It should have made no sound.
He approached the bag slowly and stood over it for a long moment. His shadow covered the burlap sack completely. He bent down and reached for it, weighing it in his hand. It felt empty. But wait… There was something… He crumbled the bag in his hand until he felt something hard wedged inside. He held the bag so as not to lose the item within. It was strange. It seemed to be hidden within the sack, but there were no pockets that he could find to shelter the item. He turned the sack, but there was no way to get to it. Frustrated, he paused, a fierce scowl on his brow. He glanced around the stall, searching for something to aid him. Leaning against the wall of the barn, Richard spied a scythe. He attached part of the sack to the sharp metal blade and pulled. The bag ripped and something fell to the ground. He bent to pick the item up.
A small golden cross. He turned it over. Tingles danced across the nape of his neck. It was bejeweled with rare and sparkling gems. Expensive. No wonder he had hidden it.
“Richard?”
At Mercy’s voice, he spun to find her rushing into the barn. He instinctively tucked the cross into the waist of his leggings. “I’m here.” He moved to greet her.
She hurried to him.
At her anguished look, Richard asked, “What is it?”
For a moment, she said nothing. Her desperate gaze swept his face.
He touched her arm, trying to soothe her. “Did something happen?”
Tears sparkled in her eyes. “Abbey is dead.”
Richard frowned, his gaze moving over Mercy’s distraught expression. “What happened?”
“Luke was everything to her,” Mercy gasped. “She… She took her own life.”
Richard led her to a bale of hay and had her take a seat on it. “I’m sorry.”
“I hate this. Watching as the bishop and his guards come down the road to take a child. The villagers come out to watch but do nothing. They stand by and let him take the boys.” Her fingers curled to fists on the straw.
“I’ve written the letter to the Pope and had Kit take it into town.” He could tell by her slumped shoulders and clutched hands that it wasn’t enough. “I can object, at your side, to the bishop taking Kit.”
“Abbey objected. She told them no, that they couldn’t have Luke. It did no good.”
“I am a knight. My duty is to protect the innocent.” He straightened his shoulders. “I will fight them.”
Gratitude shone from her shimmering eyes. “They might throw you in the dungeon for heresy or you might die. That’s not the answer. We have to stop the bishop. He needs to…” She looked at him intensely. “Die.”
Richard balked. “Mercy. Don’t say that. He is a man of the cloth. He is defenseless.”
“So are the children.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry. I just… I hate him! He should be good and kind, but he is compassionless and cold.” She stood and paced before him. “What kind of man takes children to work in the name of God?”
“Children are assigned to lords as pages at a young age. Perhaps there is nothing to fear.”
Mercy searched the ground with her eyes as if the answer were there. “Pages are given up willingly. This feels wrong. I can’t explain it.” She sat beside him, taking his hands into hers. “I’m afraid.”
Richard pulled her into his embrace, holding her tightly. He felt her body shake with a suppressed sob. He wanted to comfort her. All he could think of doing was holding her close. She was warm and soft. She pressed her face against the hollow of his shoulder as he stroked her hair. “I won’t let them take Kit.”
She pulled back to look up at him. So vulnerable. So desperate.
His gaze moved over her face. Beautiful. Soft. Tempting. He pushed a strand of hair from her cheek. Her lips were so full and tempting. And then she was leaning in. Instinctively, he cupped the back of her head and pulled her to him. Longing speared through him at the touch of her lips. His mouth moved over hers gently in reassurance. As the flames of passion ignited within him, the kiss deepened. He urged her lips to part and she willingly obliged. He thrust his tongue forward, tasting her, exploring every luscious corner of her mouth.
She answered by pulling him tightly against her; her tongue meeting and battling his.
Lord, how he wanted her. All of her. Beneath him. He wanted to touch and savor every inch of her delectable body. But not now. Breathing hard, he pulled away, separating from her. In her lidded eyes, he saw need and desire. His own need hardened in his leggings. Damn, he wanted her.
He didn’t think it right to take her without knowing his past. Without knowing if he was committed to someone else. “Mercy…”
She grinned and ducked her head. “It’s alright. You’re a knight and I’m –”
“No.” He caught her chin and lifted it. “I have to find out who I am before I can give myself to you. Before I can make you mine.”
Her gaze moved over his face, touching him with understanding. She bobbed a nod.
“Make no mistake, my fiery wench, I will have you in the beat of a heart if I am able.” She smiled at that. “Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she answered and rose. “I shall wait for you to find yourself.”
Richard nodded. Everything in him wanted to save her. To save her son. “Until I do, pack. We will leave
immediately. Get as far away from Goodmont as we can.”
“Leave?” She looked around.
“Perhaps when Kit is older, we can return. But this is truly the only way to escape the bishop.”
She nodded with excitement. Her eyes held hope. “I’ll start packing.”
Richard watched her leave. His heart was filled with tenderness and possibility. He was doing the right thing.
He had one thing he needed to do first. She wouldn’t even know he was gone. His hand closed around the cross tucked into his waistband.
Chapter Nine
Richard ducked back behind a bush, watching the cathedral. He reached down and adjusted the cross in his waistband. The golden cross, embedded with gems. He had thought it was rare, until he saw the exact same cross hanging from the bishop’s neck. A smaller version, but exactly the same. The fact that the bishop had the same cross as he did sent shivers across his neck. It couldn’t be a good sign. But that was not why he had come. He came to watch and see if he could find any of the boys.
He looked up at a cross high above the angled rooftop. A shadow against the gray night sky. A beacon.
Pain burned the back of his mind. Why would his head hurt if this wasn’t related to his past? His fingers wrapped tightly around the concealed cross. The throbbing in his mind became the beat of a drum. He glanced up at the tall spire above his head, at the cross there. Suddenly, a blinding flash of white pain overcame him, and he saw another cross. He heard distant shouting. He saw blood against a white cloth. A broken sword.
He doubled over, holding his head.
In his mind, his fingers were wrapped around the hilt of the sword! The broken sword.
The door of the cathedral opened, and the bishop stepped out.
Richard was wracked with pain. He watched through a white haze of agony as horses were brought out for the bishop and the three guards that followed him.
He winced, squeezing his eyes to slits. The bishop and guards mounted the horses. And then, Simon walked out of the cathedral.
Shock filled Richard. He glanced back down the road toward Goodmont. Mercy! He stumbled toward his horse, but a blinding flash of lightning pierced his mind with such agony that he leaned against the horse for support and could go no further. He groaned, pressing his fingers against his eyes. A broken sword. Blood. Blood against the white robe. The cross he held lying in the blood. The red liquid surrounded it in a frame.
A Knight With Mercy - an Assassin Knights novel Page 7